


File Cabinets and Campaign Pamphlets

by AdeleDazeem



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clarke is a frat boy, F/F, First Meetings, and Lexa is a sexy librarian, campaign pamphlets, filing, honestly what more could you pervs ask for?, ok not really a librarian but that's what Clarke posits her as at first, pencil skirts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-24 18:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6162484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdeleDazeem/pseuds/AdeleDazeem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She leans over her filing cart to see if she can get a better look. From her new vantage point she can see that Marcus is not alone. Standing slightly behind and to the right of him is a girl. Clarke’s jaw definitely drops now. The girl is much younger than either Indra or Marcus, probably closer to her age, but from this distance it's hard to tell.</p><p>What Clarke can tell however, is that she is absurdly gorgeous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Clarke is elbow deep in the Robinson file when she hears Indra’s voice boom down the hallway.

It's worth noting that Indra raising her voice is not uncommon. Clarke quickly became accustomed to this fact within the first week of working under the woman. When she had officially met the attorney on her first day, Clarke had been afraid of more than the woman's infamous death-grip. Lincoln, the HR director, had interrupted Indra to introduce Clarke the new file clerk. Indra's glare at the interruption could only be described as murderous. Clarke had swallowed, replaying one story Abby had told her years before involving Indra punching through the vending machine in the break room because her Nutrigrain bar had failed to dislodge. Perhaps this was what it felt like to be that vending machine..

The grunt Indra had directed in Lincoln's direction after he finished his introduction spiel had done little to quiet her concerns. Nonetheless, Clarke had been pleasantly surprised, Indra’s grip had of course been firm, but her eyes did soften ever so minutely as she bid Clarke a “good morning.”

Before she came to work at the firm, she had heard more than one story about the partner putting the fear of God (and proper legal processes) into more than a few associates (and even a few misbehaving printers as well). Her mom would recount them to her with a roll of her eyes and shake of her head. Abby was of the mindset that just because they were attorneys did not mean they automatically had to be bullies as well. Abby would remind Indra of this from time to time, and the shorter, much more intense woman would remind Abby that belief was the very reason why Abby worked in transactional law and Indra worked in litigation.

So, while Indra’s voice ringing out through the confines of the office is not atypical, her tone in this instance is . 

“Marcus,” Indra greets an unfamiliar man in a sharp suit. She sounds almost…happy? The man smiles brilliantly at her, and even from her position down the hall, Clarke can tell that his teeth are perfect. Clarke pauses her filing and strains to hear what exactly is going on.

The man, Marcus apparently, envelopes Indra’s hand in both of his. Clarke can’t quite catch what he says (no doubt because he is speaking at a normal register), but she does catch the smile that flashes across Indra’s face. Clarke’s jaw almost drops. She's been working at this firm for the past two and a half months and can’t recall ever seeing the older woman smile before. Ever. 

Interest thoroughly piqued, Clarke leans over her filing cart to see if she can get a better look at the bizarre scenario unfolding before her. From her new vantage point, she can see that Marcus is not alone. Standing slightly behind him is a girl. Clarke’s jaw definitely drops now. The girl is much younger than either Indra or Marcus, probably closer to her age, but from this distance it's hard to tell.

What Clarke can tell however, is that she is absurdly gorgeous.

In that sexy librarian way, sure, but Clarke has been a fan of that look ever since Ms. Adams in third grade. And this girl is pulling it off better than anyone Clarke has ever had the joy of lusting over before. Her dark hair is done up in a graceful bun, showcasing her facial features and long neck perfectly. _Jesus_ , Clarke thinks, heart giving a painfully aggressive thump against her sternum. This girl couldn’t be any more perfect if Clarke had dreamed her up. The mystery girl is wearing a dark blazer, with a brown leather messenger bag slung over her shoulder, one hand on the strap of the bag, the other holding a folder against her chest. The only thing missing from the 'ensemble' is a pair of glasses, Clarke notes absently. Not that they're needed necessarily, the girl is already more than captivating enough without that last stereotypical prop.

As Clarke’s eyes trail lower down the girl’s body, she leans further across the top of her cart. Stacks of papers and pleadings be damned, she has to see what this girl is wearing beneath. Marcus and Indra shift, Marcus chuckling at some unheard comment, and Clarke’s curiosity is rewarded. Sexy librarian mystery girl is wearing a dark pencil skirt that stops just above her knees, her long legs and strong calves on display below. 

Clarke is pretty sure she has died and gone to heaven. If she weren’t so busy ogling this newcomer she might just pinch herself.

She’s aware, somewhere in the back of her mind that she is shamelessly checking this girl out in the same perverted way that she routinely derides boys for doing back on campus. But that is neither here nor there. Clarke feels like she has been wandering through a desert, this girl a much welcome oasis with the way Clarke is drinking her in.

Clarke slides her gaze back up the girl’s form, taking care to spend ample time appreciating just how good her ass looks in that skirt. When her eyes finally return to a more respectful resting place - her face - she almost jumps out of her skin. The girl is looking directly at her, and if the slight quirk of her eyebrow is anything to go by, she has been for the better part of Clarke’s ogling.

Clarke flashes a sheepish grin at having been caught, flush no doubt pinking her cheeks. She debates the merits of shooting her a small wave before squashing the idea because _hello_ , this girl is gorgeous and perfect and professional and Clark is already sprawled awkwardly across her cart like some teenage dork. A wave is not going to help her case any.

The girl doesn't break eye-contact, her face a blank mask as she stares Clarke down. If this were any other setting, a crowded bar or coffee shop (hell, even a grocery store), Clarke would take it as a challenge, a silent invitation to pursue. The girl tilts her chin slightly and Clarke swallows. She doesn't remember the hallway being this hot a few minutes ago. 

Unfortunately, this is not some casual atmosphere. It is 11:45 in the morning on a Wednesday and Clarke is at work. As if to underscore this fact, an office door slams open behind her with a dramatic whoosh.

“Griffin!” Anya bellows in Clarke’s direction effectively shattering the connection between Clarke and this Marcus guy’s assistant from heaven.

Clarke immediately whips her head around to answer Anya, straightening up from the cart so as to look busy, not like she's just been salivating over a visitor. In her harried haste, however, Clarke elbows a stack of dividers, sending the green papers flying in a confetti-like explosion.

She fights a wince as they flutter to the ground. Anya’s eyeroll beside her is all but audible. Anya has made it quite clear that she did not get to where she is today - the youngest shareholder at the firm - by tolerating nonsense or inadequacy. Clarke has found though that she can be enticed into imbibing in it if the situation is right. ‘Right,’ meaning someone is being made a fool of. Clarke's had the pleasure of finding this out because more often than not, that someone is _her_.

“Jesus, Griffin. It’s a wonder your mother didn’t name you Harry, Curly, or Moe.” Anya doesn’t wait for Clarke to defend herself, simply smirks and sidesteps the papers on the ground. “If you’re done making a fool of yourself, I need the Jortner file. I have a telephone conference in fifteen, and I need to look over the notes beforehand.”

Anya doesn’t wait for any sort of acknowledgment from Clarke, rather continues down the hall. It is as Anya passes the closed door of Indra’s office that Clarke realizes Indra, Marcus, and Mystery Girl have vanished.

“Great,” Clarke mumbles to herself as she sets about gathering up the scattered papers. She tempers her disappointment at the girl’s disappearance by hoping that perhaps the group had left before Clarke’s little display, and the girl had missed Clarke's making a complete fool of herself.

Four and a half minutes later Clarke is depositing the requested redrope on Anya’s desk, positioning the correspondence folder at the front for easy access. Anya has since returned to her office, and doesn’t even bother looking up from her computer as she types, fingers a constant, controlled clatter across the keys.

“My liege,” Clarke addresses the woman with a deep bow, her voice taking on an obnoxious British accent as she picks up the sundry papers and redrope files in the “To Be Filed” box at the corner of the imposing oak desk. Clarke wonders not for the first time just how much trouble it had been to get such a massive piece of furniture into the office.

Anya still doesn’t look up at the greeting, but a small smirk does play across her lips. One of her hands pauses its typing to flit up in a dismissive wave. “That will be all, Chives.”

Clarke bows again, grinning and spinning to exit the room only to see that the door to Anya’s office is quickly being occupied.

“Anya,” Indra intones and immediately the younger woman’s head snaps up, fingers ceasing their flurry of movement, giving the older woman her complete and undivided attention. With Anya having made shareholder half a year back, the two attorneys technically are equals, but Anya still treats the more experienced woman with as much respect as she had when she’d first started her tenure at the firm as nothing but a lowly law clerk.

“Indra,” Anya says and moves to stand.

Clarke takes a step to the side, trying to get out of the way as much as possible. As Indra enters the room fully now, Clarke is surprised to see the mysterious Marcus following on her heels. Just as Clarke is about to quietly excuse herself a third person blocks the doorway. The girl Clarke had been indiscreetly drooling over now stands in the threshold, hand gripping the leather strap of her satchel and eyes falling unflinchingly on Clarke. Clarke can see now that they are an enchanting deep green.

Clarke dismisses all ideas of leaving the room, _leaving this girl_. She clutches the stack of files and papers tighter against her chest to keep from fidgeting nervously.

Clarke is vaguely aware of Indra speaking behind her, but she can hardly be troubled to pull her eyes from the girl standing three feet in front of her.

She's even more beautiful up close. Clarke is helpless to catalog each and every detail about her with a diligence her mother could only dream of her devoting to her MCAT study guides. Clarke confirms her earlier assumption that the other girl is indeed close to her age, probably no older than twenty-four at the most. She's wearing a pair of pearl earrings. Small wisps of hair have escaped the confines of her bun to frame her face; it makes her appear softer, slightly lessening the severity of the pulled-together look. This in part, is also aided by the plush swell of her red lips. She's wearing lipstick because _of course_ she is. Clarke just about combusts.

“This,” Indra begins, no doubt gesturing to Marcus, voice adopting the same tone she uses in courtrooms to direct a jury to a piece of evidence, “Is Marcus Kane. He and I were in the same class at Dartmouth. He is running for Judge this next election cycle, and apparently he believes that there is still some merit to meeting the constituency face-to-face rather than sticking to a more media-driven campaign. Imagine that.”

Anya shuffles her feet, holding back an eye-roll, at the small jibe and eyebrow raise directed at her and her  'generation's deplorable dependence on tech,' a favorite topic of Indra's.

Marcus for his part chuckles, easily diffusing the situation. He steps between the two women and offers Anya his hand. “Don’t listen to her. I actually just can’t stand being cooped up in my own office, and decided to spend some time invading other people’s,” he says and Clarke is surprised by how warm his voice is. She figured most judges (or at least the people running to be them) would be cold and stern. She turns to give him a once over again. He’s handsome, in that older dad kind of way, with his salt and pepper hair coiffed perfectly. He's wearing a navy suit, but no tie. Instead his shirt is open at the neck, top button undone. Yes, definitely not what she imagined to be judge material. She decides it isn't a bad thing, and wonders if Abby has met him yet.

She sees a grin flash across Anya’s features in her peripheral vision. It looks like the mono y mono approach just might work out for Marcus Kane after all; Clarke is more than willing to wager that he just won Anya’s vote with that self-deprecation alone.

“What court?” Anya asks, grin still evident in her inflection.

“194th Judicial District. And from what Indra tells me of your prosecutorial record, I’m sure I will be seeing plenty of you from the bench. Between you and Indra, this firm must have one impressive conviction rate.” Yep, Clarke thinks, noting the swell of pride straightening Anya’s back. He definitely has her vote in the bag.

“Speaking of which. Lexa?” Marcus looks back at his aide standing quietly in the door and beckons her forward. The name ricochets around in Clarke's head -- it definitely fits -- and longs to try its taste out on her own tongue. The girl steps forward soundlessly, eyes now on Marcus as she hands him a campaign pamphlet from her folder. Clarke zeroes in on the movement, eyes tracing her delicate wrists and long fingers. Lexa's nails are short and Clarke pulses with hope at the possibility of an indicator.

Marcus takes the proferred paper and turns back towards Anya, offering her the pamphlet as he speaks, “I’m sure you’re very busy, and I would hate to take up more of your valuable time. Thank you for meeting with me, Anya. I would appreciate your vote come elections.”

With that, Indra and Marcus, and most importantly Lexa, turn to leave the office. Clarke sees her window of opportunity start to close.

“Wait,” she says and three pairs of eyes swing to rest on her - the fourth already having been there to begin with, Clarke notes with glee. “Don’t I get a pamphlet?”

Indra raises a lone eyebrow at Clarke, clearly not expecting the girl to speak unless spoken to. Behind her, Anya looks like she is about to facepalm herself at Clarke’s look of faux innocence. Clarke fixes her blue eyes on Marcus now, expectant.

Marcus, clearly well-versed in maneuvering awkward professional situations, chuckles for a second time since entering Anya's office. “Of course,” he says and turns back to Lexa. Before he has a chance to take a pamphlet from her to hand to Clarke though, the dark-headed girl moves on her own.

Lexa closes the distance between her and Clarke, sure strides suggesting complete ease in her heels. Clarke can’t help but smirk at this. Office settings be damned, maybe she does have a shot at getting this girl’s attention. Shifting her load of documents to one arm, she reaches out for the folded paper. Just like earlier in the hallway, Lexa's eyes never break from Clarke’s own. There is a brush of soft fingers across the backs of her own knuckles as she takes the pamphlet, that Clarke is certain is purposeful.

Marcus might have been about to launch into his campaign shtick once more, but Lexa beats him to the punch yet again. She opens her mouth and Clarke knows that if she wasn’t a goner ten minutes ago when she first laid eyes on the girl, she definitely is now.

“We appreciate your vote,” Lexa says, voice softer and much lower than Clarke was expecting. The words slide past her lips like silk and Clarke makes the executive decision that she could hear this girl talk for the rest of her damn life and it still wouldn’t be enough.

Indra and Anya clear their throats at the same time.

“Well,” Indra says, eyebrow still raised in Clarke’s direction.

Clarke looks down with a chastised blush, and Lexa takes a step back to stand beside Marcus, wholly unrepentant, face devoid of any such sort of discomfort. Her unflappable demeanor makes Clarke ache with challenge; she would be lying if she said she isn't already thinking up possible scenarios to test it. Just what would cause those perfect cheekbones to redden, she wonders. She bites her lip at the thought and notices with some satisfaction Lexa’s eyes zeroing in on the action.

“Yes,” Anya supplies, reseating herself behind her desk. “If you four will excuse me, I have a conference call in about," she checks her expensive watch, "two and and a half minutes.”

Marcus takes his cue and nods his head in Anya’s direction. “Anya, it was a pleasure. I look forward to seeing you again, hopefully with a gavel in my hand.” Then he turns to Clarke, the barest traces of a laugh playing at his eyes and says, “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Clarke,” she supplies. He nods.

“Well Clarke,” he says as he heads out the door behind Indra, “It was a pleasure for both Lexa and I to meet you, I believe.” He doesn’t wink as he says the last part, but his lightly teasing tone certainly suggests he wants to.

Before Clarke can add anything else, he and Indra and Lexa disappear down the hall and Clarke is left to watch them leave. She stands in Anya’s doorway, awestruck for all of two seconds before Anya breaks her from her reverie.

“Clarke, would you mind taking your puddle of drool and hormones elsewhere? Some of us have actual work to do.”

Clarke rolls her eyes and shuts the door behind her. She leans against the outside of it for a moment to regroup and steady her heartbeat. Flipping the pamphlet over in her hand, she thinks about the man whose picture is on the front and mentally thanks him for his excellent choice in staffing.

Who knew Wednesdays could be so exciting?, she thinks before heading for her desk in the opposite direction her accused hormones want her to go.


	2. Interim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can this chapter just be called 1.5 or something? Because it's really more of a little diddy/segue than a real chapter. I already had this written and it's self-contained. So here, have a snack (aka Marcus's POV).

“So,” Marcus begins, grin stretching his lips and lightening the word. “Clarke?”

Lexa merely looks at him, face blank. 

He has learned over the past four weeks of working together that this is as much of a response as he should really expect to get in a situation such as this. Engaging Lexa in any sort of personal conversation was like trying to draw blood from a stone. Still, Marcus can’t help himself. He grabs a peppermint from the bowl resting on a nearby coffee table and continues. “I don’t think I’ve seen you show such interest since I asked about your opinion on the policy reforms in North Carolina two weeks ago.” 

They’re stopped in the lobby of Indra’s law firm. Its decor is just tasteful enough that Marcus knows Indra had no hand in decorating it. A grand abstract painting hangs on the wall behind the receptionist’s desk. The plastic wrapper crinkles in his hand as he pops the mint into his mouth. 

“As you well know, Mr. Kane, public policy is the foundation of this country. It sets the tone for our society’s interactions,” Lexa replies smoothly, ignoring his thinly veiled meddling in favor of latching onto the safe and relevant-to-work topic of politics.

Marcus nods, smiling around the mint in his mouth, the response a sentiment he heard expressed during their last discussion on the matter. “Agreed, Miss Woods. But what of your ‘interaction’ with Miss Clarke back there?” He pauses long enough for it to be obvious he is waiting for a reply of some sort. When none comes, he wheedles, “It was--.”

“No different than the interactions you have with every constituent.”

At the blatant rebuff, Marcus hums, noncommittally, curiosity assuaged for the moment, yet mood not in the least bit dampened. He turns to watch through the glass conference room before them as Indra speaks with an associate of hers, a woman close to Marcus’ age and breathtaking. He has yet to meet this woman, and he hopes that his tour of the office will not be completed without making her acquaintance. 

He shoves his hands in his pockets and redirects his attention to the young woman standing silently beside him, no doubt going over their schedule for the rest of the day. He remembers what it was like to be a first year in law school. The professors seem to take a certain pleasure in exacting fear and panic over their students -- particularly in that first year when they’re trying to weed out the faint of heart. Regardless of how hard you may have studied, every time you’re called on feels like facing a firing squad. Marcus remembers how stressful the whole endeavor had been, how incredibly relieved he had been to survive just that first year of classes. He had coasted through the following summer on that high, putting only the minimal amount of effort into his clerkship, choosing instead to conserve his energies for other more interesting things, such as dating fellow clerks and taking full advantage of the freedom summer afforded. 

Looking now at the stone-faced, unflappable woman before him, he can tell that Alexandra Woods, soon to be 2L law student, is nothing like he was at her age. From the get go, Lexa had been nothing short of cool, bordering on cold, professionalism. When Dean Gustus, one of Marcus’ close friends from his public sector days, had directed Marcus’ attention to Lexa for filling the position of his Personal Aide, Marcus had been unsure about the choice. She was, to be frank, grossly overqualified for the internship. Her grades were phenomenal, and Gustus himself had rave reviews. 

The only hangup had been her dour disposition, which Marcus wasn’t convinced would be conducive to canvassing. During her interview, however, Marcus had glimpsed the passion and exceptional drive that lay beneath that austere exterior. That’s what had sold him that morning back during the spring semester. He had been intrigued by the dichotomy. A month into their working together and Marcus was now more certain than ever he had made a good choice on this one.

Through the glass, he sees Indra head their way, the beautiful unknown woman in tow. Marcus scratches his chin and formulates a plan.


End file.
